


The Girl on Our Doorstep

by AthenaFangGranger26



Series: The Adventures of 'Lizabeth Page [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Mention of abuse, Sherlock's a little OOC
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-27
Updated: 2013-07-27
Packaged: 2017-12-21 13:33:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/900870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AthenaFangGranger26/pseuds/AthenaFangGranger26
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When John finds a small homeless girl outside 221B Baker Street and introduces her to his flatmate, he wasn't expecting the two to hit it off so well. Turns out the girl, Lizabeth, was smarter than the world assumed her to be, and Sherlock learns to appreciate that. When a new mystery arises, will Lizabeth be able to lend a hand?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Girl on Our Doorstep

Hi, I'm Lizabeth. I solve mysteries now, and I wanted to tell you my story. My story of solving one case and joining the most famous detective duo of all time. You'll see me a lot from now on, here on John's Blog. Wish me luck! 

I was leaned against the café's window, trying desperately not to notice the staring passerby. It was annoying; like they'd never seen a homeless person before. God knew there were too many in London. Maybe it was my age. I was approximately only sixteen. I'd been on my own for about five years now.  
I don't really know how accurate that statistic is. I've taught myself how to advance my intelligence. I consider myself smart, but only so I don't consider myself dumb. I did only get education up until I was eleven.  
"Oh, hello. Are you alright?"  
I started, and stared up at the man who had spoken to me. They usually don't speak to me. Scared of the scrawny girl with the rags and ratty black curls. But this man, a small man with blond hair and kind blue eyes, had the courage and kindness to speak to me.  
But still I felt myself already shying away; flattening myself against the café's glass window like a cornered animal. I hated my fear of humans; they're just like me, yet I was terrified of all them.  
"Do you speak?" The man probed.  
I nodded slightly, keeping my eyes on the man. What was he up to?  
"Would you like some food?"  
On cue, my stomach made a horrifying inhuman sound that made me grimace. The man smiled though, he shifted the paper sack in his hands to free a hand and extended said hand down to me.  
"C'mon, my flat's right here." He indicated the door beside me. "I'll get you a meal."  
I stared dumbfounded at his hand. Was he seriously offering a small homeless girl food in his own house? Doesn't he know that's dangerous? What do I care? I was planning on raiding the café's garbage later tonight anyway. A cooked meal would be nice.  
Slowly I placed my hand on the man's palm. He smiled and gently pulled me to my feet.  
"I'm John, by the way."  
He led me up to the door and opened it with a key. He then led me upstairs to another door. This one led to a room.  
It was a big room, with a smiley face painted on the wall. The wall was smattered with bullet holes. This scared me. What kind of person was John?  
John placed me in a comfy chair and went into the kitchen, I wanted to follow him. I didn't want to be alone in this strange place.  
I was so preoccupied with fear that I didn't notice the other man stretched out on the sofa, until he moved and spoke.  
"John, who is this?" The man's voice was deep and scary. I could feel myself cowering again, despite my curiosity.  
"Um, this is-well she didn't give me a name. I found her outside the café. She's hungry and alone." John answered the man.  
"'Lizabeth," I whispered.  
"What was that?" John called from the kitchen.  
"She said ''Lizabeth'. Is that your name?" The other man asked me, his voice was still harsh.  
I backed away, but nodded. I felt a wet feeling spring to my eyes. No, no tears. I'm not scared. I cry when I'm scared, but I'm not scared. I'm curious.  
"Introduce yourself; you're scaring her." John suggested.  
No, he's not. I thought to myself, but it seemed my voice ran away with my name. Suddenly the man dropped his harsh gaze and leaned forward on the sofa.  
"I am Sherlock Holmes." He said softly.  
I nodded silently, not taking my eyes off the man. We continued to stare at each other. His piercing blue eyes following my every breath. I didn't understand this man.  
"Ah, here we go 'Lizabeth." John emerged from the kitchen, holding a plate and two tea cups. "A nice sandwich for you and some tea."  
He placed both in front of me. Some small part of me wanted to eat properly in front of these nice men, but then my stomach made another ravenous sound and I forgot my manners completely.  
I tore into the sandwich, barely tasting the nice, not-rotten ham and cheese. It was a glorious sandwich and it was gone in less than ten seconds. I drained the tea cup too, only slightly scalding my mouth. I let out a large sigh when both were gone.  
"Jesus, did you taste it?" John chuckled.  
"Delicious. Thank you, I'll go now." I mumbled, standing up.  
"No, sit down." The man called Sherlock ordered.  
With his scary voice and commanding tone, I plopped myself back down in the chair with no second thoughts.  
"Stay awhile. No need to run out there to do nothing." John said.  
"Yes, and nothing is exactly what you would do. You wouldn't even go to anyone on the Homeless Network for help." Sherlock mused.  
"Sherlock." John said in a warning tone.  
"So, 'Lizabeth, you are fifteen-no, sixteen. Been on your own for about five years. Left your family at eleven, left a note to them explaining you'd left. But that family threw the note out because you've got it in your pocket now. You're torn as to whether you miss that family or not, but you still don't know if they would accept you.  
"No, wait-you can't go back to your family. They're not here. You're American, and were in London on holiday when you ran away, your family has gone back to the U.S. now and you're still here. You're still deciding if that was intentional, by you or you family. You don't want help, consider yourself strong, and don't trust easily. Yet here you are."  
I stared at the man. How-? He'd gotten everything spot on. But how-? And why did he have to tell me, it took me nearly all five years to get over it.  
I could feel the tears brimming, and just as they began to spill I heard a loud wail. I realized the wail was me, and I was done. I stood quickly, nearly knocking over the plate and cup. I wrenched open the flat door and thudded down the stairs. I didn't even make it outside before I collapsed into sobs at the bottom.  
Thank God no one else lives in this place.

"Good job, Sherlock." John sighed. "You've terrified her."  
Sherlock just stared at where the tiny girl had just slammed the door. No one had ever reacted that drastically to one of his deductions before. He couldn't help it; he saw it all so plainly and once he started there was no filter.  
What John didn't know was Sherlock felt terrible for scaring the poor girl.

I was awoken some time later to the sound of a soft violin. It was coming from upstairs, from John's flat. I wanted to investigate, but was still worried about the man called Sherlock Holmes.  
But at the same time I wanted to know how he'd known all that. I had never told anyone that. So, how had he known that.  
Fine. I made up my mind. I would confront the man called Sherlock. I stood myself up and wiped my grungy hands across my damp cheeks. Then I slowly made my way up the stairs. I put my hand on the doorknob and the violin stopped. I froze, and stood stock still. The violin began again.  
I took a deep breath and pushed the door open.  
I nearly screamed. In the center of the room was Sherlock pointing a gun at me! I knew my eyes were wide as saucers as he saw me in the dim lighting and laid the gun down.  
"'Lizabeth." He said softly. "You're back."  
"I am." I whispered. "I'm sorry I ran out before. You're very strange."  
Sherlock chuckled, picking up the violin off the table. "I have heard that before."  
I crept over to sit in the chair I had before. "How did you know?"  
Sherlock glanced at me, but continued playing. "You've never heard of me?"  
"Never. I don't think of many but myself most days."  
"Ah, I know that feeling." Sherlock winced. "See, I am a detective. I can tell lots of things about people by looking at them."  
"You got it all right, you know. Every last bit. That's why I ran, I haven't thought about when I ran away for nearly five years."  
Sherlock stopped playing and laid the violin down again. He seated himself in the chair across from me. He fixed a determined stare upon me. "Why did you run away?"  
I sighed. Sherlock was nearly a stranger and I had never told anyone the story of why I ran away. But Sherlock already knew half of it. Why not?  
"It was my dad." I began. "Mom died years ago, when I was eight. Dad went downhill, lost his mind. Well, as far as I was concerned anyway. He started abusing me when he was sad. When something would remind him of Mom, he would beat me. Like it was my fault she was gone.  
"His mother convinced him to take a vacation when I was eleven. We ended up here, but when we landed at the airport I got lost in the crowd and Dad had to go to the help desk to find me. He was very angry with me. He took me to our hotel and beat me.  
"It was worse than it had ever been. If I think hard enough I can still remember the pain and his exact words."  
I squeezed my eyes and felt the sting of Daddy's belt, felt the buckle smash into my spine, and the leather slash my skin. I could hear his voice clearly.  
"Don't." Sherlock whispered, but I ignored him.  
"'You, dumb bitch. You should've gone with your dumbass mother. You're just a pain in my ass. You're the reason she's dead.' He screamed at me as he brought the belt down on my spine again and again. Eventually, he left me cowering in the corner and went to bed. That night, I decided I had had enough. I didn't own anything I treasured, so I scrawled out a note for Dad and left.  
"He tossed the note in the trash the morning he found it. He didn't care; he was probably glad I was gone. He didn't have to take care of the 'little bitch' anymore. He was free. So was I.  
"So, here I am."  
I sighed, reopening my eyes. Sherlock was just staring at me, his eyes distant. Then they snapped back to focus and he smiled sadly at me.  
"Why don't you sleep on our sofa tonight?"  
He didn't wait for an answer, only laid out a blanket on the sofa and went back to his violin. I felt a sad smile cross my lips too. I went and crawled onto the sofa. I buried myself under the blanket and peeked my head out to watch Sherlock play his violin.  
"Thank you for listening." I whispered.  
I saw Sherlock nod, and then his song changed into a gently soft lullaby that had my eyelids heavy in no time. The last thing I remember that night was the sight and sound of Sherlock playing that gorgeous lullaby.

I woke to find Sherlock gone, but the nice man John in his place. He was in the kitchen, making the racket of an inexperienced man. For some reason, this made me smile. Honestly between last night with Sherlock and now, this was the most I'd smiled in a long time. This made me....happy.  
"Do you need help?" I asked quietly, stalking into the kitchen.  
"Oh!" John leapt a mile into the air at my arrival. "'Lizabeth, nice to, erm, see you."  
A giggle burst through my lips and I felt myself grinning. "Hello, John. Do you need some help?"  
"No, no. I'm fine. Just making some coffee. Would you like something to eat?" John chuckled, turning back to his work.  
"I would, but I don't want to intrude." I whispered that last part.  
"Oh, seriously, it's no trouble. Sherlock hardly joins me for breakfast; it'll be a nice change."  
I smiled again. "Okay."  
I wandered over to the table, but found it covered in materials and samples and science-y stuff. This puzzled me; why have a dining table if it was not used?  
"John, what's all this?" I asked.  
"Oh, that's Sherlock's stuff. He likes to experiment. Don't touch anything."  
"Oh, my mom used to experiment." I mumbled.  
"Did she?" A new voice rumbled.  
I turned to find Mr. Sherlock Holmes before me in nothing more than I bathrobe. Was this normal Brit behaviour? Something clouded in his blue eyes told me that our discussion from last night was not to he brought up in front of John-or anyone for that matter. I gave him an imperceptible nod, but I understood that the genius in Sherlock completely understood.  
"What did she experiment with?" Sherlock continued, as if the silent exchange had not happened.  
"Mostly biology stuff. She was a vet for a few years, but she dabbled in medicine for humans. There were days I'd find humans eyes and cat paws in our refrigerator." I smiled, remembering the days.  
"Ah, yes. That occurs here too. Not too often." Sherlock said.  
"Often enough, Sherlock. Bloody hard to put milk in there when there's a decapitated head in there." John called.  
"How about you, 'Lizabeth? What do you know about science?" Sherlock asked, moving to his microscope.  
"Very little, unfortunately. I'm more into stars and galaxies."  
"Sherlock didn't know we revolve around the sun until I told him." John butted in.  
I giggled while Sherlock told John to shut up.  
"Don't worry, I don't think that matters either, besides if the sun explodes before humanity has died off we're all gonna incinerate anyway. It wouldn't matter where we were in the solar system, we'd be dead." I laughed.  
"And you dropped out of school at eleven?" John asked, carrying three plates into the room.  
"I read ahead in the high school text books. I like reading." I said sheepishly.  
"You seem far more educated than a eleven year old education and some secondary school textbooks should have provided you with." Sherlock mused, staring into his microscope.  
"When I wasn't out looking for food, I was in the library reading. I loved the nonfiction as well as the novels. But novels were my favorite; they took me to a place where I could be a warrior princess, or a snarky detective, or a brave spacewoman. Instead of being me, the lonely homeless girl with no friends." I explained, devouring John's well made eggs in between phrases.  
"You like detective stories?" John asked.  
"Yes, I enjoy solving the crime before the hero." I smiled. "Usually it's easy; I know the answer twenty pages after the evidence is described."  
"Really?" John smiled.  
I nodded and continued to eat. John really was a good cook, the eggs were delicious. Granted, I'd only had half eaten food and scraps for the past five years, but he really was good.  
"How'd you like to see a real crime scene?" Sherlock suddenly asked, staring down at his cell phone.  
"What?" John and I said at the same time.  
"Lestrade just texted me. We've got a case." Sherlock started to stand, reaching for his coat and scarf.  
"Sherlock, no. She's just a girl." John protested, cleaning the table.  
"No, I want to go. I like mysteries." I grinned.  
"Well, if she's going she'll need some better clothes. John, think she could borrow a jumper from you." Sherlock smirked, texting on his phone.  
'We'll be there soon. We will have one extra. -SH'

Ten minutes later I was wedged in a London cab between Sherlock and John on my way to my first crime scene. This was exciting.  
I was dressed in one of John's sweaters that was a little too big in the arms. I still wore the same holey jeans I wore before and my rat's nest hair was tucked beneath the sweater's collar.  
I could hardly contain my excitement. I wanted to bounce up and down in my seat, but something about Sherlock and John's manner stopped me. Instead I just sat there with an unnaturally large grin on my face. It felt quite strange.  
"Who's Lestrade?" I finally asked, to break the silence of the cab.  
"Head of police at Scotland Yard." John said.  
"You're friends with the police at Scotland Yard?"  
"Not friends." Sherlock snapped. "Colleagues maybe. Not friends."  
"Oh," I sighed. "Still cool though."  
"Yes, I suppose it is 'cool'." Sherlock mused, making me giggle again.  
Finally, we arrived at the crime scene. When I saw how many cars were parked in the area and how many people were milling around, my confidence level plummeted. I'd grown a bit used to Sherlock and John, but I knew none of these people.  
When Sherlock and John exited the cab, I hung back getting out slowly and shuffling after them, my holey sneakers scuffing the dirt with every step.  
"C'mon, 'Lizabeth." John called, beckoning me forward.  
I caught up and tried to walk normally. Tried being the operative word there. A older man with greying hair came out to the police tape line to join us.  
"Sherlock, John." He greeted the men, then his eyes fell on me. I dropped my eyes to the ground. " Who's this?"  
"'Lizabeth. A niece of mine." Sherlock said quickly, lying easily.  
I suppose with my mane of unruly black curls, we did look a little related. Weird. Did I have blue eyes too? Did that fit the bill of 'Sherlock Holmes' niece' too?  
"I didn't know Mycroft had a daughter." The man commented.  
"Who said it was Mycroft?" Sherlock snapped.  
"I assumed-"  
"Yes, I know. The body, Lestrade?"  
"Of course." The man, Lestrade, handed John and I sterile gloves as we ducked under the tape.  
He led us to an alleyway, where police cars we parked nearby. Many men were inspecting the crime scene. I could see it was a woman on the ground. Sherlock pushed his way toward the woman. She looked mid-forties, with little wrinkles on her face. Her hair was thick and black as night. Her wide green eyes were open and staring at nothing. It looked as if her throat had been slashed and a puncture was made to her chest near her heart.  
"This looks like a regular murder, Lestrade. Why am I here?" The irritation was clear in Sherlock's voice.  
"Because this isn't the first one like this. There's been three other murders just like this one, always a back alley. Always a middle aged woman like this. Always the same appearance. And there's always this."  
Lestrade pointed at the wall of the alley. Painted on the wall in vibrant red paint-I hoped it was paint-was the word, or rather abbreviation: WIP IV.  
"We're guessing it means 'work in progress'. As in the killing spree is a work in progress." Lestrade continued.  
Sherlock stared at the wall. "Is it blood?"  
"No, we're pretty sure it's spray paint. Clever, makes it look like it's blood."  
"Find out for sure." Sherlock then bends over the body and starts examining it.  
I want a closer look, because something is too familiar about this woman, so I crouched beside Sherlock before John can stop me.  
"What do you think, 'Lizabeth?" Sherlock asked.  
"Looks like a slashed throat, a puncture in the chest near the heart almost as if the killer removed the organ. Carefully, it seems-like he didn't want to harm the woman anymore than he already had. The woman looks familiar..." I turned to Lestrade, speaking to him for the first time. "Do you know if she's someone famous?"  
"No, just looks like a plain woman. Nothing special."  
"People don't just kill. There's always something special about their victim." I muttered. "She looks familiar and so do those initials. I don't know where from, but they look familiar."  
"Initials? How are you sure they're initials?" John asked.  
I stood up, pointing at the paint in question. "It's his mark, he 'wants' to he found. The IV is Roman numeral for four. This is his fourth murder, he's keeping a running tally for the coppers. How kind of him."  
"Him? How do you know it's a man?" Lestrade asked.  
"First, how many women do you know with first names that start with W? If we're chasing a woman named Wilma, I'll laugh myself to my grave.  
"Second, the killer took great care of the victim before and after he murdered her. If a woman committed this crime, the body may be unrecognizable. Women are scornful creatures, the killer may have wanted to destroy this woman's beauty had it been a female criminal. But this man seemed keen on keeping the woman as beautiful as he could during the murder, notice there's absolutely no marks on her face compared to her throat, body, and chest. She was kept this way on purpose."  
"He wants her to be recognizable as being alike the other murders. He's playing a game with you all." I concluded, glancing once more at the body, satisfied with my analysis.  
"She is definitely related to the freak." An African-American woman commented from a few feet away.  
Freak? Was she calling Sherlock a freak? I think he's brilliant. Quite nice too. Was she blind? Or just stupid? I figured the second one.  
"Sally's right. She definition shares your bloodline, Sherlock. What's your say on this?" Lestrade said.  
"I'll have to agree with 'Lizabeth. She took the words right out of my mouth, besides the initials and woman being familiar. I don't recognize her at all." Sherlock glanced at me with a strange look. "I want to see photos of the other murders."  
"Me too." I piped up, enjoying being taken somewhat seriously for once.  
"'Lizabeth." John scolded.  
"No, John, let her come along." Sherlock came to my rescue. "She's onto something."  
I beamed at the praise; all those hours in the mystery section of the library was paying off. Thank God for Alex Cross and Agatha Christie.

I stared at the pictures on Lestrade's desk beside Sherlock. Lestrade was right. Every victim was an ebony haired, green eyed middle aged woman. Each and every one looked familiar. The killer had also left behind the same signature each time: WIP. Except the numbers counted up: I, then II, then III. Leaving today's murder at IV. Four. One, two, three, four. He was 'actually' leaving a running tally of his victims.  
"Any thoughts?" Sherlock asked me.  
"They all look familiar." I murmured. "And I don't know why? It's infuriating."  
I raised my head to find Lestrade studying me closely. "What?" I snapped.  
"Nothing. You're just a bit strange." Lestrade jumped a little.  
I smirked. "Yeah, I've heard that before."  
Sherlock glanced my way and his lips twitched.  
"Alright, Lestrade. I'll give it some thought." With that Sherlock swept out of the room. No goodbye, nothing.  
"Bye." I quipped as I followed.  
"Thanks, Greg." I heard John say as he ran to catch up with Sherlock and me.  
"So, Uncle Sherlock, where to next?" I asked, as Sherlock pressed the elevator button.  
"Back to 221B. I assume you're joining us." Sherlock smirked.  
"Wouldn't miss it for the world." I smirked in return.  
This man, Sherlock, was really amazing. He was no longer scary, I felt like we were on the same wavelength. Finally someone with a brain.

Sherlock was sprawled on the couch, hands steepled under his chin. His eyes were shut, but he was not asleep. He was in his 'mind palace' as he called it. It was where he hid mentally to think. Such a lovely idea. I'm not that persistent though; I'd get bored staring at my eyelids.  
John was typing on his laptop, updating the blog he wrote on the cases Sherlock solved. I kindly asked him not to mention me. I had no idea if Dad ever surfed the web. I didn't want him finding me. At all. Ever.  
Me? Well, I was pacing up and down the room, barefoot and in fresh clothes that fit. Turns out Mrs. Hudson, the nice landlady downstairs, had some old clothes from one of her daughters' teen years. She gave me most of them. I made sure I thanked her. I then took a nice long shower to finally get rid of all the grime I'd collected in five years. It felt nice.  
I was still baffled at how kind Mrs. Hudson, John, Sherlock, and even Detective Lestrade were to me. Had I really gone five years meeting the absolute worst of London-believing that was all the city had to offer? Only to find these wonderful people. I felt blessed.  
I stared at the photos of the women Sherlock had pinned to the wall, next to the peculiar skull on the mantle. Why were they so familiar? I didn't watch much television, so it couldn't be an actress. Besides four dead actresses might attract more attention than the local PD. So, that ruled out actresses, heck that ruled out newswomen and politicians as well. It really was looking as if these women were just random murders who happened to look alike. A coincidence.  
"There are no coincidences." Sherlock growled, as if he could hear my thoughts.  
"Did you read my mind?" I shot back.  
"You were speaking out loud." Sherlock deadpanned.  
"Oh," I sighed. "Insanity's finally set in then."  
I heard John chuckle at this, which brought a smile to my face too. Why did I enjoy it so much when I made these men happy? I spent so many years with myself for my only company, was I really that strained for human interaction?  
"Any thoughts, Uncle Sherlock?" I called; 'Uncle Sherlock' kind of became a thing after he claimed me as his niece to Lestrade.  
"Five, none piecing together perfectly-make that four." Sherlock muttered, not opening his eyes.  
I sighed; this was tiring and infuriating. It's not as easy to solve mysteries as I thought, but I still felt like I had a head start on Sherlock, considering the initials and women seemed familiar to me.  
"Why don't we take a break and watch some telly?" John suggested, shutting his laptop.  
"Television is dull, John." Sherlock grumbled, still not budging from his 'thinking' position.  
I chuckled, seemed everything except murders was dull to Sherlock. "Maybe he should try skydiving, that's not dull."  
"Dull!" Sherlock roared over the end of my sentence.  
"Anyway, I'd love to watch television with you John. I haven't seen a proper television show since I was eleven." I smiled.  
John smiled at me, and clicked on the television. It took a few moments to find something good, but he settled for a show called 'Doctor Who'.  
"This one is one of my favorites." John explained.  
"BORING!" Sherlock roared again.  
"Quit sounding like an angry ADHD dragon, Uncle Sherlock." I mock-scolded.  
"He doesn't like it, because it's not logically possible." John laughed.  
The opening sequence played, showing a flying blue telephone box in a....vortex? Strange. Names flashed across the screen: 'Matt Smith' and 'Karen Gillian'. Then titled spun on screen and the show began...

Hours later-it turned out John had accidentally found a marathon of Doctor Who-I found myself tucked beneath a blanket absolutely terrified of angel statues, lizards, and Stonehenge. But intrigued all the same.  
John bid Sherlock and me goodnight and switched off the television. He headed for his bedroom, I expected Sherlock to remove himself from the sofa and head for his own room. But he didn't budge.  
"Sherlock?" I called softly.  
"Hmm?" He mumbled, still not opening his eyes.  
"Are you asleep?"  
"Obviously not." I saw his eyes roll under his eyelids.  
"Sorry, you were just so quiet. How come you don't like 'Doctor Who'? It's all about science." I asked, scooching closer to the sofa until I was right next to it on the floor.  
"Because it also deals with silly fairytales."  
"Fairytales are fiction, they're not supposed to be real."  
Sherlock suddenly sat up and fixed his cold blue stare on me; in the dim room it was almost impossible to tell they were blue.  
"My turn to ask questions. How did you find all that about the murder?"  
I wanted so much to make an angry quip of 'Because I'm clever', but I kept that inside. Instead I told the truth.  
"I told you, I read a lot of mystery novels. I picked up some of the detectives' skills; I've learned to analyze situations completely before making assumptions. It helps to not trust a single human for five years."  
"Yet, you trust us. Why?"  
"Because you were kind to me. I liked that. I haven't felt someone's kindness for five years. It was a surprise to me; plus John offered me food and I was starving." I ended with a chuckle.  
Sherlock's lips twitched. "You don't smile often do you?" I asked.  
Sherlock shook his head. "Most would say I am inhuman."  
"I think you're perfectly human." I said, standing up. "And by the way, humans need sleep. Might be a good idea, eh, Uncle Sherlock?"  
Sherlock gave me that same thin lipped half smile and stood. He surprised me by ruffling my recently washed hair.  
"Goodnight, 'Lizabeth."  
"Goodnight, Uncle Sherlock." I called softly after him as he headed for his room.  
I smiled as I curled up on the sofa. I needed a goodnight's sleep to deal with the mystery again tomorrow. I was determined to solve it before Sherlock. I wanted to beat him at his own game.

"You, dumb bitch."  
I flinched at the sound of his voice. I stiffened as the belt hit the skin on my arms. I held in my screams of pain, knowing it only made him hit me more. But it hurt so, so badly.  
"You should've gone with your dumbass mother."  
There he goes again, screaming about Mom. I can't bring her back, and if he really wants me to join he should just end me. Stop torturing me and just get rid of me. It's not like I meant anything to him. He didn't care. The belt stung against my back like the crack of a whip. He brought it down again and again, and then he kicked my side as he continued to pelt me with the buckle of the belt.  
"You're just a pain in my ass. You're the reason she's dead."  
I let out a wild shriek as the buckle came down directly on my spine. And suddenly I was falling, he finally killed me.  
"Aaaaagh!" I screamed as I fell face first onto the floor.  
I found myself bawling, I'm still not quite sure if the tears were an aftermath of the nightmare or were tears of relief that I was alive and in 221B where Dad couldn't hurt me.  
Suddenly light filled the room and two figures rushed into the room. Another scream of terror flew past my lips and suddenly I had someone hands on my shoulders. I screamed and cried and I couldn't calm down.  
"Shh, shh. 'Lizabeth, it's me, John. Calm down."  
I could hear and see John talking, but I couldn't find the off switch for my terror. I was literally beyond my own control.  
There was an urgent knock at the door and John told Sherlock to get it.  
"No, John. You get it. Move, I'll handle this." His deep voice was somehow comforting, I still couldn't stop the horrible noises I was making, but I recognized Sherlock's voice as a kind one.  
Soon John moved and the tall, dark figure of Sherlock was in front of me. He didn't say anything at first, just stared at me with those depthless blue eyes. Slowly he placed his hands on my shoulders.  
John answered the door. It was Mrs. Hudson, she must've heard my scream from downstairs. John quickly started filling her in on the situation, while Sherlock continued to murmur to me.  
"'Lizabeth, it was a dream. A nightmare. He's not here; he's in America. You're here at 221B, John and I are here." He murmured. "Please quiet down before even Lestrade and his men show up."  
Sherlock Holmes just asked me 'please'. He also knew the nightmare was about my dad. He truly was an amazing man, absolutely brilliant.  
I found I was slowly able to stop the screams and the loud sobbing, but the tears just wouldn't stop. No matter how I turned the mental spicket on my waterworks, they would not cease.  
Then Sherlock shocked every person in the apartment. He put his arms around me and pressed me into his shoulder. His arms squeezed me and gave off a comforting warmth I did not expect from the seemingly cold man. I continued to sob into his robe, but it seemed he didn't mind. He just stroked my black curls-now askew in a sleepy mess-and whispered in my ear.  
"He won't get you. John and I won't let him. I promise. He'll never lay a finger on you again. He's a sick man."  
Suddenly, I felt myself being lifted. I realized Sherlock had lifted me into his arms bridal style. I clung to his robe and tried desperately to still my leaking eyes.  
"There's no problem here, Mrs. Hudson. Thank you for your concern. Go back to bed. John, you too. I will handle this." Sherlock's voice rumbled by my ear.  
Without another word to his friends, Sherlock carried me into his bedroom. It was still dark in here, and with the door shut it seemed darker.  
Sherlock gently laid me down on his bed. He stared at me again, his eyes sad this time. I wanted to stop so bad.  
"'Lizabeth, please stop. I want to help you. Please, please stop." Sherlock murmured, wiping away the tears on my face before more leaked out to erase his work.  
I wanted to stop, I really did. I felt unbelievably vulnerable. I don't like vulnerability. 'Stop, Lizzy. Stop. Be strong. For Sherlock and John. He asked you please three times; that does not happen with Sherlock Holmes. Stop. Crying. Now!'  
I took a huge rattling breath and squeezed my eyes shut, effectively stopping the tears. I hiccuped and reached out for Sherlock. I was surprised by how quickly he accepted and pulled me close to him.  
"I'm...so...sorry." I hiccuped, as he held me.  
"Don't apologize. We can't control our nightmares. Scientifically proven." Sherlock murmured.  
I let out a choking, broken laugh. Leave it to Sherlock to bring science in at this moment. I tightened my grip around him and he reciprocated. The funny part was this didn't feel weird at all, it felt comforting. It was...nice.  
Sherlock finally let me go, pressing that unwavering stare on me again.  
"Do you want to tell me?" He whispered.  
"He was beating me, like the very last time." I whispered; that was all I had to say.  
"Do these happen often?"  
"No, I haven't dreamed about him since I was eleven. I thought I had beat this nightmare away." I sniffed.  
"Hmmm..." Sherlock was quiet a moment, obviously thinking.  
His brow furrowed. Then he sort of smiled at me. "Why don't you sleep in here tonight? Just in case."  
Did it cross my mind that I would be accepting the offer to share a bed with a man twice my age? Yes. Did I worry at all about that? No. Because this was Uncle Sherlock and he had just helped me calm down after reliving my worst nightmare. I trusted him wholeheartedly, and I didn't want to be alone.  
I nodded and Sherlock helped me get settled. He then laid beside me and stared at me for a moment.  
"Did you mean it?" I suddenly whispered.  
"Hmm?" Wow, even Sherlock sounded sleepy. What did I bring out in this man?  
"Did you mean your promise to never let him get me?"  
"Of course. You don't deserve a father like him." Sherlock murmured.  
"What kind of father do I deserve?" I pressed.  
"One like John, kind and normal." Sherlock yawned.  
"What about like you?" I squeaked; where did that come from?  
"I would make a horrible father. I don't even know how to care for myself." Sherlock mumbled.  
I smiled, then frowned. "I beg to differ."  
When I glanced back at Sherlock, I saw he was asleep. He looked so calm and peaceful; even more so than when he was in 'mind palace' mode. He looked sweet and innocent.  
"Thanks, Uncle Sherlock. Goodnight." I whispered.  
I snuggled against the pillow beneath my head and drifted into a-thankfully-peaceful sleep.

I woke up the next morning to an empty bed. This didn't hurt me in the slightest. I knew Sherlock was just getting a head start on 'my' head start. It was a race. I see how he gets joy from this mystery stuff.  
It's fun.  
I got up and padded quietly to the place we were keeping my clothes now. I changed into a long sleeved t-shirt and jeans, replacing my note in the new jeans' pocket. I never let that thing out of my sight.  
I wandered back into the sitting room, to find Sherlock already in 'mind palace' mode on the sofa. I smiled, he was still in his stupid robe.  
"Hey, Uncle Sherlock?" I called, finding an apple in the kitchen and checking that it had none of Sherlock's chemicals on it.  
"Yes?"  
"Did Lestrade tell you what was done with the other crime scenes? Like the graffiti?" I asked, biting into the apple.  
"I believe they were left as they were found."  
"So, it's all there minus the body?"  
"Yes."  
"Okay. How strange is it for a sixteen year old to take a cab alone?"  
"Why?" John answered me instead of Sherlock as he came down from his bedroom.  
"Because I need to go somewhere." I deadpanned, why else would I ask that?  
"Where?" John pressed.  
He reminded me of a nagging parent, then I reminded myself I 'am' a kid. Physically, anyway.  
"A crime scene." I said casually.  
"What?"  
"I want to go to a crime scene. Three crime scenes actually." I repeated.  
"Why?" John asked.  
"Oh, my God. Why does he want to go to crime scenes?" I pointed to Sherlock. "I 'like' it!"  
John sighed and opened his mouth to answer me, but then Sherlock's phone beeped. I dashed for it and read the text, not bothering to ask permission.  
"Another one happened." I stated.  
Nothing more was needed, we were all in action. John and Sherlock dashed off to get dressed. I calmly pinned my hair up in a curly bun. I glanced in a mirror to check it.  
My dark blue eyes looked tired. I got my eyes from my dad, Mom's were greenish hazel. I liked her eyes better; if I had her eyes Mom and I could've been twins.  
I smiled sadly at the thought, before reaching for Sherlock's phone again and texting Lestrade back.  
'We're on our way. -SH'  
Yes, I've even learned his craft of texting. I'm very observant.

This time I was right beside Sherlock and John when we entered the crime scene. Lestrade seemed to be surprised that I was back. Honestly? I was the one with the most promising lead.  
The scene was exactly the same. Black haired woman, unseeing green eyes, slit throat, dug out heart, and WIP V on the alleyway wall.  
I had been right it was a running tally, and the women were all the same. But who was WIP?  
"Lestrade, get me a list of all the men in London with the initials WIP." Sherlock ordered, glancing in my direction.  
I walked over in the direction of the alley wall message. Something caught my eye. Something tiny. I moved in closer to investigate.  
"Um, Uncle Sherlock?" I called. "Come see this."  
Almost instantly Sherlock was behind my shoulder, staring at the same words I was. Written on the wall, in smaller letters was: 'You have until X before I come for HER'. Those letters were too small for spray paint, even with the most skilled hand. I reached out a tapped the letter X with my index finger, when red came away I brought my finger to my lips. When the pungent taste of rust blossomed across my palette, I felt myself pale.  
"'That's' blood." I breathed. "He's getting impatient that we haven't solved his game yet. He's going to get sloppier. Not as careful with the women."  
"What do you mean?" John asked.  
"I mean, now he's placed a death threat on a specific female and left us no clues to who it is. I'd say we have five days to solve this mystery. He said we have until X, Roman numeral for ten, before he kills HER. A specific person, but who? With a murder a night, I figure he'll give us five days, killing again each night."  
I couldn't help the shudder that tingled across my skin. This was getting serious.  
"Lestrade," Sherlock growled. "I need those names."  
Who was this mysterious killer?

Later that night, we were all back at 221B. I was pacing again, Sherlock was 'mind palacing' again, and John was Googling the names on list Lestrade had given us.  
I was stuck, I couldn't find any link between the women, they didn't even share professions with each other. Each woman was a complete stranger to all the rest.  
"I don't get it!" I yelled. "How do they connect?"  
I paced faster. Nothing came.

Three more nights passed like this. No progress. No hits on Google, more murders all the same. And I still couldn't find the answer. I could tell Sherlock was getting frustrated as well.  
Speaking of Sherlock, I was sleeping in his bed regularly now and I haven't had a nightmare yet. Sherlock actually smiles at me when no one is around, I even made him laugh.  
Besides the murders, I had a disturbing feeling that I would have to leave 221B when this case was over. It was time I moved on; I always feel I only succeed in evading Dad because I'm always on the move. I had never stayed in the same place for more than one night. Here I was eight days later still at 221B.  
But part of me didn't want to leave. Part of me loved the life I lead now. Even if murder and crime were a daily happening. I found it all exciting and never dull.

It was around midnight on the ninth night when I pulled my note out of my jeans. I sat in the corner of Sherlock's bedroom while he slept, and read the note.  
I had nearly told Sherlock my life story by now, but the note would be something I always kept secret. The words on this slip of paper were my words, and my words only.  
'Dad,  
I've had enough. You have beaten me enough to get what you wanted. I am disappearing, to join Mom. Hope you are happy. If you can turn everything around I will come home. But if not, never again. You'll never have to see me again.  
-With some love,  
Lizabeth Page.  
I almost crumpled the note as the surge of emotion flew toward me, but something stopped me dead in my tracks. Something the moonlight had showed me.  
I had written this note long ago on the receipt for my dad's and my hotel. The same receipt my dad had to sign. There on the back of the note were the letters: WIP, in fancy cursive lettering.  
My dad's name was William Ivan Page. And...oh, my God.  
"OH, MY GOD! I've solved it!" I yelled, too giddy to realize it was midnight.  
Sherlock was at my side immediately, ushering me out into the sitting room. He studied me and the note in my hand as John came stumbling down the stairs.  
"Wha'izzit?" He slurred, tired.  
"I've solved the mystery. I know the culprit." I said proudly, not taking my eyes off the photos of the nine dead women-all alike one other woman.  
"Well, tell us then." John said, setting himself in his chair.  
"It's my father."  
John looked confused, but a fierce look crossed Sherlock's face. I knew he understood why I seemed a little afraid now.  
"Yes, my father. William Ivan Page." I recited.  
"WIP." Sherlock breathed.  
"What about the women? Why them?" John pressed.  
"All of these women bear striking resemblance to my late mother, Melinda Page." I explained. "Dark hair like mine, and striking green eyes. The only thing that kept me from being another Melinda Page clone. My eyes are blue."  
"What about the note on the wall?" Sherlock asked, though I could tell he already knew.  
"You have until X, before I come for HER." I recited, from memory-a memory that strikes fear to my heart now. "Well, that HER would be me. I once told my dad that I was going to join Mom. Well, he knows I'm with you, so he knows I'm alive."  
"Damn, right I do."

I froze. That voice. I couldn't move. Fight or flight was not working. My mind went blank the second the scruffy russet man strode into the apartment. I was a deer in the headlights.  
"Hello, daughter dear. Didn't you grow up lovely?" My father rasped, sounding intoxicated.  
"Dad..." I breathed.  
"That's right. I'm here to finally get you to your Mama." My father laughed, hefting up a shotgun.  
Now my blood ran cold. I was dead. Just dead.  
"Dad..." I whispered. "Don't do something you'll regret."  
My father let out a long insane laugh and aimed the gun at me. I felt my pulse skyrocket. "Darling, I ain't gonna regret this."  
I shut my eyes, I don't want to see the looks on Sherlock and John's faces when the bullet hit me.  
'Goodbye, my...friends.'

"Put the gun down, now." I knew that baritone voice. Sherlock.  
My hero.  
Eh, too cheesy.  
I peeked my eyes open to see both Sherlock and John had guns pointed at my dad. Dad's posture told me he knew he was cornered, but was going to find a way out. He stared at Sherlock who inched closer to me.  
"You touch my girl?" My father's voice was loud, angry.  
"I'm not 'your' girl, Dad. I never was. You killed innocent people to scare me and you failed at it. I'm not afraid of you. You're just a crazy man with a gun and a belt." I stated, finally finding my voice.  
"Oh, really?" Then-to my horror Dad's gun swung to point at Sherlock. "How about now?"  
Inside I was panicking, inside my voice was hoarse from screaming. Outside I was calm, staring down the man about to kill my favorite person in the world.  
"Dad, think. That'd be murdering one of the most important people in London. His brother is the government." I tried to reason.  
"All the better the way to go out." My father said.  
"Dad..." My eyes flashed between Sherlock and my father. My heartbeat was audible in my ears. I was so close to panic.  
"Dad..."  
Dad cocked the gun. Aimed and...

"Hands up, you're under arrest."  
Just then Lestrade and his men came pounding up the stairs, guns drawn. I looked beside me to see Sherlock place his phone back in his pocket. I smiled.  
My father started to raise his hands to his head, gun still in hand, when...  
He pulled the trigger and the bullet flew through his own skull.  
"Dad!" I screamed, sensory overload already beginning.  
I started to fall forward as my father's body slumped over. I felt strong arms slide around my body and pull me to feet and against their side.  
Tears started to fall despite my hate for my father. Despite everything he had done to me, I felt sorrow. And yet, all I could think was 'I'm free, and he's with Mom.'  
Sherlock's arms tightened around me as the tears came faster and harder.  
"A sick man," I heard him whisper.  
"I'm free." I whispered back.  
To which I got an even tighter hug and lips planted on the crown of my hair.  
I smiled, and crumpled the note I still held in my hand. I wouldn't need it anymore. I was finally free.

I had the hands of both Sherlock and John on my back as I strode up to the side of my dad's grave, I dropped the flower the funeral man had given to me into the grave. Then I returned back to my boys, hugging Sherlock's side while taking John's hand.  
They both came with me to America to my dad's funeral. I really just wanted all the people to go away. I knew none of them, they were Dad's friends.  
The preacher man said a few prayers I knew my dad wouldn't have cared about, and then it was over.  
Everyone left.  
Leaving Sherlock, John, and I the only ones left. I disentangled myself from the men to walk up to Mom's side of the grave. I knelt beside her headstone and traced her name, cleaning the moss out of the engraving.  
"Hey, Mom. Looks like Dad's coming to see you. Take care of him, okay? He needs you. Tell him I do love him, please. I love you too, Mom." I started to get up, but suddenly remembered. "Oh, right. Here give this to Dad." I placed my run-away note on the grass in front of the grave. A sudden wind gust picked it right up and carried it off into the sky. I watched it go, until I could no longer see it. I turned back to the grave. "Eh, you're right, Ma. He doesn't need it, and nor do I. Try not to worry about me, okay? I'm gonna be with Uncle Sherlock and John. We're gonna solve mysteries. Each one's for you, Mom. I love you. Bye for now."  
I stood, giving the headstone an affectionate pat. Then wiping my dry eyes, I rejoined my boys. John smiled at me, but Sherlock sent me a look of concern.  
"It's okay, she doesn't want the note either." I smiled, taking Sherlock's hand in my left and John's in my right. "Let's go solve some crimes, boys." I crowed as we walked hand-in-hand out of the cemetery.

"Go on upstairs," Sherlock told me as he and John got out bags out of the cab. "There's a surprise."  
I narrowed my eyes, but unlocked the flat and headed upstairs anyway.  
Everything seemed normal, until I looked down at the coffee table. Three items sat there, a cell phone, a set of keys marked with an L keychain, and a sheet of very important paper. I picked up the paper first, knowing what the other items were already.  
The first line on the certificate read 'This document hereby declares Lizabeth Mary Page a legal child of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.'  
Oh my, God. They freaking adopted me so I can officially live with them here at 221B. Oh my, God. I love them.  
I swiped the new phone off the table and sent my very first text messages.  
To: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson  
From: Lizabeth Page  
'Thank you guys so much; I love you both. But please don't ask me to call you my dads. -LP'

Seconds later, I got the reply from John: 'Just John is fine.'  
I only had to wait a half-second for Sherlock's reply:  
'You better call me Uncle Sherlock still. -SH'  
I laughed aloud and tackled them both in a hug as they opened the door with our luggage. I really didn't want to cry, so I didn't. But that doesn't mean, I didn't repeat I love you a million times.

I am now the happiest girl in the world. I am no longer afraid of humans, despite being one. And I have a proper family. I am now Lizabeth Mary Page-Watson-Holmes.  
Nah, I'm kidding. Lame, right? Let's just stick with Lizabeth Mary Page. LMP, just in case I ever need a signature-for something...

To: John Watson  
From: Lizabeth Page  
'You better call this case "the Girl on Our Doorstep". Cuz if that ain't the best title you've ever heard I don't know what is. -LP.'

To: Lizabeth Page  
From: John Watson  
'How about you write up this case and post it. I don't mind, make your debut on the blog right.'


End file.
